


Catch Twenty-Two

by purewanderlust



Series: Love, Curiosity, Freckles, and Doubt [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finally gets what he wants, but everything has its price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Twenty-Two

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not usually big on notes, but this is actually the first time I've written explicit smut in a fic, so please don't judge me too harshly! ^^;

Sam breaks his brother's heart three months after he graduates high school.

They've relocated to a shabby little cabin in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere and Sam is climbing the walls. There's mold on the ceiling, rusty water in the spigots, and no air-conditioning to combat the relentless summer heat. The only thing Sam has keeping him sane is an eight and a half by eleven inch piece of card stock, folded carefully and hidden away in the bottom of his duffle. The Stanford acceptance letter had come barely a week before they'd hoisted anchor in the last town, giving Sam just enough time to sneak off to his former high school and pick it up from his bewildered guidance counselor.  A single sentence at the very end, before the congratulations, contains the two most meaningful words Sam has ever seen in conjunction: _full ride_. Suddenly, his far-flung dreams of college seem like they might become a reality, if only he can gather the courage to tell his family.

This is an issue in and of itself, what with Dad being gone all the time, wreaking terrible vengeance on the things that stalk the night, and Dean... _well_.

Dean spends most of his time working: at the tiny convenience store down the road, on his car, on his endurance, on getting his hands on every girl in the vicinity. When he does deign to talk to Sam, it's without depth, apparently designed to remind him that they're brothers and that brothers don't do the things Sam wants to do.

Funny thing is, Dean hadn't seemed to be singing that tune back in May, on that interminable night where Sam woke him every two hours to check on his concussion, exchanging languid kisses until they slipped back into sleep.

The next morning though, Dean had flinched away when Sam tried to kiss him, tight-lipped and disapproving. He'd refused to say a word about it and Sam's spent all the time since his stomach in a tight knot and his mind spewing justification. Yes, Dean had been concussed, and hopped up on pain pills, but he'd never said no, never indicated that he didn't want to.

Then Sam's mind helpfully reminds him that Dean never tells him no anyway and he has to dart for the bathroom before he's sick all over the already-abused carpet.

Suffice it to say, Sam's pretty desperate, considers up and leaving without an explanation, but then his heart stutters in his chest. He can't do that to Dean, even if all appearances indicate that his brother wants nothing to do with him any longer.

The fizzling tension finally comes to a head late one evening when Sam comes back from the library in town. It's become his refuge since they've been here; air-conditioned and with internet access that Sam can use to start carving out a life for himself for when he leaves. He printed his bus tickets earlier this afternoon; the final step before actually going. Now that he has them, he reasons, he _has_ to tell Dean, especially since he's left it to the last minute. Classes start next week.

With all this running through his head, its easy for Sam to be distracted when he comes in the back door, sitting his book bag down on the table and going to rummage in the refrigerator for something to drink. He's already opened and chugged half a bottle of water before he hears it, a bitten-off groan followed by a curse.

"Dean?" he says, but there's no answer so he steps into the hallway. The door to Dean's bedroom is pulled to, but it doesn't latch, so it still hangs ajar, just an inch or two.

"Fuck!" he hears Dean spit and Sam moves quickly towards the door, wondering if his brother's hurt and... _oh_.

His brother’s splayed out on the bed, completely naked, back against the headboard. There’s a girl on her knees between his legs, hands gripping his hips and mouth wrapped around his dick. Sam doesn’t have a very good angle, but he can still tell that her mouth is stretched wide to accommodate his brother’s full length. Dean’s got one hand on her shoulder, the other buried in her long brown curls, hips jerking as he tries to get some relief, and his eyes are squeezed shut, stupidly long eyelashes trembling. He hasn’t seen his little brother in the doorway yet, and this would be the perfect opportunity to walk away but Sam can’t move. 

“Ah, fuck,” Dean pants, “I can’t…I’m gonna…” His eyes fly open then, meeting his brother’s with what feels like an audible snap, and he gasps, “Shit, Sammy!” And then he’s coming with the force of a freight train, eyes riveted on Sam’s as the little brunette tries valiantly to swallow his load, come dribbling down her chin when she can’t take it all.

Sam’s still frozen, clutching the doorframe like it’s his salvation when the girl sits back on her heels and wipes the back of her wrist across her mouth. “Who the fuck are you?” she demands.

“He’s my—my little brother,” Dean stammers. He’s flushing under his freckles and Sam distantly thinks that’s a good look on him, almost misses the brunette’s head whipping back around to look at him, disgust painted in every line of her face.

“That’s so fucking messed up,” she spits, shoving up off the bed. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?” 

Over her shoulder, Sam sees Dean’s expression flash stricken, even though she’s clearly directing the words at Sam. Before Sam can say anything to defend himself (and really, what could he possibly say?) she’s shoving past him, hurrying down the hallway and out the front door. After a few moments, Sam hears a car start _should’ve come in the front, fuck, fuck, fuck!_ and then screech away, leaving a tense silence in its wake.

“Well,” Dean says after a long moment. “This is awkward as hell.” 

“Which part?” Sam hears himself say, even though he’s like ninety percent sure he’s got no control over what he’s saying anymore. “The part where I walked in on you getting a blow-job or the part where you said my name when you came?” 

Dean’s face flushes an even deeper shade of red and for some reason that gives Sam the courage to release his death-grip on the doorframe and take a tentative step into the room. 

“Was that just because you were surprised, or was there another reason?” Sam whispers, taking another cautious step towards the bed. Dean’s watching him with wide, guarded eyes.

“Don’t ask me questions like that Sammy, please,” he mumbles, expression pained. 

“But I have to know, Dean,” Sam’s close enough now to sink down onto the mattress, so he does, not sure his trembling legs are going to support him much longer. “I never would’ve kissed you if I knew you didn’t want me to.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about? I kissed you back, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but then you acted like nothing ever happened and started sleeping with more girls! And you had a concussion and lots of pain medicine and I didn’t even think about it—” Sam’s aware that his eyes are welling with tears, but he doesn’t seem to have the control to stop it. 

“Sammy.” And suddenly, Dean’s there, arms wrapping around his little brother like when he was young and terrified by his nightmares. “I knew what I was doing, that’s not what this is about.”

“What then?” Sam demands, pulling back to get a good look at his brother’s face. “If we both want it, what’s stopping us?” 

“Dude,” Dean says in disbelief. “Did you not just hear what Allison just said? That’s what everyone would think of you if they found out.” 

“There are so many things wrong with that argument,” Sam retorts. “First off: I’m not stupid; I wouldn’t let anyone know. Second: I don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone but you thinks of me.” 

Dean closes his eyes, like he’s trying to summon up the strength to argue. “This is fucked up, Sam. It’ll ruin you. You deserve a normal relationship.” 

Sam leans close then, catching Dean’s wrist. “Well you’re about fourteen years too late to give me that, Dean, and it’s not your fault.” He tips forward, opens his mouth on his brother’s pulse point, lips pressed against Dean’s skin. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

The older Winchester gives a choked off cry, grabbing at the front of Sam’s shirt while Sam starts to suck a bruise just under his brother’s jawline. “Sammy…nngh, what are you doing?” 

Sam pulls back, notes with amusement that the fact that Dean got off no more than ten minutes ago is doing nothing to stop him from getting hard again. “I’m old enough to make decisions for myself, Dean, and I know you want this too, even if you won’t admit it. You never take the things you want for yourself.”

The words hang in the air like an incantation and Dean makes a strangled noise and hauls him forward until their lips are less than an inch apart. “You’re the only thing I ever wanted for myself, Sammy,” he whispers, and then closes the rest of the space between them with a searing kiss. It’s nothing like the kisses they shared that night in May, all aimless and comforting; this kiss is hot and dirty, full of promise and Sam squeaks a little in surprise as Dean licks across his teeth and at the roof of his mouth. It doesn’t take him long to get with the program, though, and soon their mouths are sliding together, rough and perfect, Sam biting and licking as much as he’s getting. He pushes at Dean’s shoulders until his brother finally tips backwards on the bed, pulling Sam down on top of him. 

“Off, _off_ ,” he mutters, tugging at the hem of Sam’s t-shirt until he finally obliges, yanking it off over his head and tossing it somewhere behind him before falling back into his brother. Dean’s skin is burning and humming and Sam could probably honestly get off just to the feel of their bare chests sliding against each other, slick with sweat. Then Dean shifts under him, his cock catching against Sam’s, only denim and boxers between them, and Sam groans, deep in his chest and grinds his hips down into his brother’s. Dean arches up in response, dragging against Sam enough for sparks of pleasure to dance up his spine, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough.

“Dean, Dean,” Sam gasps. “Pants.” He’s fumbling at his own fly, but his fingers are shaking and he can’t quite get a grasp on the button. Dean reaches up and flicks it loose one-handed and drags the zipper down achingly slow. “God, please, Dean.” Sam moans and pulls up and away, struggling out of his jeans and kicking them off his ankles. 

“What’s the matter, Sammy,” Dean teases. He hooks his fingers in the elastic of Sam’s boxers, tugging them down off his brother’s hips. “Too much, too soon?” 

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease, Dean,” Sam hisses, fingers creeping down between them. Dean’s eyes almost bulge out of their sockets when Sam wraps a hand around him and he gets a brief moment of satisfaction before he realizes that his big brother’s cock is in his hand and then a full-body shudder rips down Sam’s spine and he gives it an experimental tug.

“Oh God,” Dean gasps, hands tightening at Sam’s waist, enough to bruise. “Do that again.”

“No, Dean,” Sam says in a low voice, proud of how little it’s shaking. “I want…I want you to fuck me.”

Dean goes completely still under him, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ, Sammy, I—I can’t—” Sam panics and starts to pull back, but Dean seems to have anticipated that, catches his shoulders and holds him still, clarifying; “Sammy, at least this first time, I can’t do that to you.” He looks a little heartbroken about it, but his mouth twists into a smile. “I want you to fuck _me_.”

Sam’s dick gives an interested twitch at that, jerking against Dean’s and they hiss in sync. “I, um…” Sam hesitates, feeling his face grow warm, but Dean doesn’t tease him, just grins sloppily in understanding.

“You ever been with a guy before, Sammy?” 

“Never been with anyone before,” Sam mumbles, embarrassed, but he hears Dean’s sharp intake of breath. “Never wanted anyone else, Dean.”

His brother moans, burying his face in Sam’s neck. “Jesus Christ, Sam, what’re you doin’ to me?” It’s the same thing he said back in May, before their first kiss and it emboldens Sam. He flicks his thumb over the crown of Dean’s cock, watching as his brother’s eyes fly open in surprise.

“Well right now it looks like I’m jerking you off, but I’d really rather fuck you, if I’m not too novice for your taste,” he says with a sudden surge of bravado, and Dean’s eyes darken.

“Lube,” he stammers, “there’s lube in the bedside table, God, Sammy, hurry up.” 

Sam grins, pushing up on his elbows and reaching over to the bedside table, keeping Dean pinned between his thighs. He opens up the lube and squeezes a little out on his index finger.

“More than that, Sammy, c’mon, it’s okay.” Dean hums in approval as Sam follows his instructions, liberally coating his fingers with the gel. “Okay, now…just, take your time, okay?” He rearranges them so Sam is kneeling between his legs, Dean spread out on the bed and it hits the younger Winchester like a punch to the gut.

Sam hesitates, his hand hovering awkwardly by Dean’s thigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing—I  don’t want to hurt you.”

“Shhhh, you won’t, Sammy, I know you won’t,” Dean croons, running a hand through his hair. “I trust you.”

It’s practically one of Dean’s dreaded chick-flick moments, but Sam doesn’t even have the wherewithal to call him on it. He takes a shaky breath and presses one finger slowly into his brother. It’s strange at first, and too tight, but then Dean relaxes around him and Sam pauses at the second knuckle, glancing up at his face. 

“Shit,” Dean breathes, hands tightening on Sam’s forearms. “You’re doing fine, Sammy. Just move.” 

Sam obediently flexes his finger, marveling at the shudder that goes through Dean. “More?”

Dean nods a little frantically and Sam carefully slides in a second finger. He crooks them together, almost a ‘come here’ motion and Dean yelps, hips arching up off the bed.

“What? What did I do?” Sam asks, barely stopping himself from pulling his fingers out altogether. 

Dean surprises him by laughing, though the sound is a little shaky. “Nothing bad,” he reassures, “Far from it.” 

Sam remembers reading something about erogenous zones from the one time he got up the courage to research this and flushes, feeling a little out of his depth.

“Okay, Sammy?” Dean’s watching his face intently and suddenly Sam realizes he has two digits deep in his brother and isn’t moving, so he flicks his fingers again and Dean bites off a curse, twisting under him. 

“More, Sam, c’mon, please,” he gasps, and Sam watches the needy expression flicker across his brother’s face with his mouth hanging open. Dean never asks for anything, always tries to come across as being completely self-reliant and Sam’s turned on even more, being allowed to see this other side of his brother. 

Sam scissors his fingers, pressing in a little deeper and Dean thrashes so hard that he has to pin his brother’s hips in place with his other arm before he can work a third finger in alongside the other two digits. 

“Fuckin’ Christ Sammy, _please_.” Dean tries to thrust down on his fingers, but he’s still trapped under the weight of Sam’s body, and he makes a desperate sort of keening noise. 

Sam’s starting to feel a little desperate himself, if he’s honest, and he methodically works his brother open, his own dick twitching where’s it’s trapped between them. When he thinks Dean’s as ready as he’s gonna get, he gently eases his fingers out and looks up into his brother’s eyes. 

“A—are you…can I?” he feels his face burning, but he can’t bring himself to say it. 

“Yeah, Sammy, anything—anything you want.” Dean hooks his ankles behind Sam’s thighs and jerks him forward. It’s a defensive sparring move that Sam’s familiar with, but experiencing it in this context is something completely different. The head of his cock brushes against Dean’s hole and he tries unsuccessfully to bite back a whimper. “Shh, it’s alright. Just take it slow and easy,” Dean’s whispering, pulling him down into a kiss and Sam aligns their hips almost without thinking about it. “That’s it, baby boy, just press forward.” His brother punctuates his words by tightening his legs around Sam’s hips, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him forward. 

When he gets past the first ring of muscle, Sam sees stars. There’s tight, hot pressure everywhere and his hips stutter forward without his permission and Dean hisses through his teeth. 

“Easy, Sammy, or we’re both gonna embarrass ourselves,” he quips in a shaky voice and Sam forces himself to go slowly. 

It seems like eternity, but finally Sam can’t go any deeper, and he gasps a couple of times like he’s forgotten what air is. He’s frozen, hovering over his brother, just feeling, and after a moment, Dean speaks up in a strained voice: “Get a move on, Sammy, c’mon,” which he emphasizes with a roll of his hips that sends sparks of intense pleasure rippling down Sam’s spine and his mouth falls open.

“D—Dean, ah, god, that—” 

His brother grins up at him. “What, this?” and rolls his hips again and Sam whimpers and buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. One of his brother’s hands comes around, two fingers tilting Sam’s chin up until their mouths meet in the most tender kiss Sam’s ever experienced. “Alright, Sammy,” Dean mumbles against his lips, “Work with me.” He pushes at Sam’s hips until the younger Winchester gets it and pulls back, almost all the way out before thrusting as deep as he can. Dean bucks and curses, hooking an arm around Sam’s neck to pull him down, and lavishes his little brother’s mouth with attention.

Sam’s next thrust is a little sloppy, but Dean’s hips snap up to meet him and Sam whines, high and needy. He isn’t going to last much longer. “Dean…Dean,” he pants, thrusting shallowly on every exhalation, feeling his orgasm build in his spine.

“My Sammy,” Dean answers, knuckles brushing across his cheekbone at the same time as Sam’s next thrust and that’s all it takes to send Sam hurtling over the edge, emptying into his brother with a sob. His muscles clench and tremble and he nearly collapses on top of his brother. 

But Dean’s still gasping and hitching his hips, so Sam thrusts clumsily a few more times, reaches between them to get a hand on his brother. He runs his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock in time with his next thrust and the older boy lets out a strangled cry and comes, spilling over Sam’s hand as he works him through the aftershocks.

Sam eases out and rolls off his brother, throwing an arm over his face. “So,” he tries for a conversational tone, but he’s still kind of panting and that ruins the effect. “That just happened.” 

Dean turns to look at him, smiling crookedly. “Sammy?” he says and Sam recognizes the real question _are we okay?_ and beams back at his brother.

“Mmm hmm,” he says instead of any real words. He’s starting to feel sleepy, but Dean flicks his ear lightly.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, little brother.” Dean rolls out of bed and half-stumbles to the bathroom, stark naked. In a moment he’s back with a damp washcloth and a stupid grin. “You’ll be really unhappy if you wake up covered in _that_.” 

Sam hums at him again and Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation, dropping one knee onto the bed and wiping his brother clean. “Lazy ass,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat in it and as soon as he’s dropped the washcloth on the floor, Sam tugs him down onto the bed again.

“Dean,” he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his brother’s mouth, feeling it quirk up under his lips. “Sleepy.” 

“S’okay, kiddo,” Dean answers, brushing his bangs back from his face. “You can go to sleep now.” 

Sam’s drifting off, head pillowed on Dean’s broad shoulder, when he feels his brother’s lips ghost across his forehead.

“Jesus Sammy,” he thinks he hears his brother whisper. “Love you so goddamn much.” 

But he might just be dreaming.  

*

 

Dean's still out cold when Sam wakes up the next morning, a beam of sunlight slanting through a crack in the curtains and over his face, a more effective wake-up call than any alarm clock. His brother is wrapped around him; face more peaceful in sleep than it ever is in his waking hours. The sunlight dances on his hair, making it gleam gold, and his freckles stand out sharply on his nose, cheekbones, and even on his eyelids. Sam props himself up on his elbows, content, for the moment, just to watch Dean sleep.

He still has to tell his brother about Stanford, but Sam's not so anxious about it anymore. Maybe he can even convince Dean to come with him; they could get an off-campus apartment and take hunts in the area on the weekends. Dean could get a real job and they could meet back up with Dad for bigger hunts during summer break. Maybe Sam will be able to get along better with the man if they have some time apart.

Sam's so preoccupied daydreaming of this perfect future--one where he can have Dean and Stanford, hunting and a normal life--that he almost misses the rumble of a truck pulling up in the driveway. When it does finally permeate his consciousness, he curses and squirms out of Dean's grip, stumbles clumsily out of bed and starts looking for his pants. It  _really_  wouldn't do for their father to find them in bed together.

Sam's found his jeans and is hopping awkwardly on one foot, trying to get them on when he hears the front door open. There's a distant thump as John dumps his bag on the floor and then heavy footfalls head in the direction of the kitchen as Sam finally gets a shirt on. Dean is still asleep, oblivious to the danger, so Sam darts forward, untangling the sheets from around his brother's calves and pulling them up over Dean's hips. Then he throws back the covers on his own bed and punches the pillow out of shape, trying to make it look slept-in.

He's halfway to the window once he realizes that the smell will give them away before anything else, but then his father's voice booms out from the kitchen. "Samuel John Winchester, get your ass in here right _now_!"

Dean stirs at the noise, but doesn't wake and Sam trips out into the hallway without opening the window, worried that his hesitation could bring their father into the bedroom.

John's standing at the kitchen table, his back a tense line facing Sam. "Hey Dad, what's up?" He should probably be more respectful, especially since Dad's obviously already upset about something, but his body is still thrumming contentedly, so it doesn’t even occur to him.

As soon as he speaks, John rounds on him, and Sam realizes he's miscalculated; his father's not upset, he's _furious_ , rage pouring from every inch of his frame and even though Sam passed him in height two summers ago, he’s towering over his younger boy now.

"What the hell is this, Sam?" He demands, waving a crumpled piece of paper in his son's face. Sam steps back, bewildered and a little cowed, but then he catches sight of his backpack, lying open on the kitchen table behind his father.

Oh. Oh  _shit_.

"I--I got a full ride to Stanford." Sam says unnecessarily. Obviously, Dad's already read the letter, crushed it like its trash and Sam feels a sudden flicker of anger.

"And?" His father barks, and that's the final straw that pushes Sam over the edge. He's spent four years at seven different high schools, working his ass off and spending any additional time that he wasn't studying training like a soldier, facing nightmares and death at fourteen years old and all his father can say is  _and_?

" _And_ ," Sam snarls, grabbing at the letter, "I'm going." There's a tearing sound and he comes away with only half the page, and his fury spikes. "You know, most parents are  _proud_  when their kid gets accepted into an Ivy League school, not to mention the fucking full ride."

"You mind your tone with me, boy..." John growls.

"No. I don't think I will." Sam snaps, "I'm so sick of this. Of never being good enough for you. Worrying if you're gonna make it home next time. Of this stupid, failed quest for vengeance."

John's eyes widen in shock and suddenly Sam feels like he's gone too far.

"How dare you." His father says, a horrible dark thing creeping into his voice, "Your mother died protecting  _you_ and this is how you're going to repay that sacrifice?"

Sam doesn't think it's possible for him to feel more terrible than he does in that moment, and then Dean steps into the kitchen. He's still loose-limbed and relaxed, the expression on his face only mild annoyance, so Sam knows he hasn’t figured out what the argument’s about yet.

"Seriously, guys, already?" He sighs, "You've been home five minutes. What is it this time?"

"Did you know about this, Dean?" John asks, still in that deadly quiet voice.

Dean eyes go wide and he shoots Sam a panicked look. Sam jerks his head minutely before Dean can out them. That's about the _only_ thing that could make this situation worse.

Some of the fear bleeds out of his brother then, but he still looks confused. "Know what, Dad? You gotta give me more than that."

John studies his older son's expression, coldly calculating. "Why don't you ask your brother?"

Dean turns to Sam automatically. His expression is still calm, but Sam knows everything about his brother, recognizes the tension that’s creeping into his shoulders. "Sammy, what's going on?"

Suddenly Sam's anger has drained away, replaced by icy terror. "Dean...I was gonna tell you--"

John cuts him off. "If that's true, then why hide it at all?"

"Guys, what are you talking about?" Dean says urgently, green eyes darting between the two of them. All that calm contentment has leaked out of his body and he's standing in a defensive position, as if he expects someone to start throwing punches. "What the hell is going on?"

John slaps Sam's Greyhound ticket down on the table and Sam flinches. "Your brother is leaving, Dean."

"What?" Dean's staring at their father like he can't comprehend what he's hearing. He glances over at Sam. "Sammy, what is he talking about?"

"I got a full ride to Stanford." Sam answers quietly, "This isn't how I wanted to tell you--"

"It looks to me like you were going to just abandon us without a word." John cuts in again and Sam rounds on him.

"I'm not abandoning  _anyone_! Dean, I'm not abandoning you."

Dean doesn't seem to hear him. "How long have you been planning this?" His face is very white, and he looks like he's going to be sick. "Weeks? Maybe even months? Is that what last--" he catches himself just in time, eyes darting to their father over Sam's shoulder.

"What?" Sam is horrified. "No! Dean, I would never!" But Dean's not listening; Sam can see it in his eyes. And he knows his brother better than anyone, knows how Dean thinks. His mind is already twisting last night into something ugly: guilt or selfishness, or worse, a pity fuck. Sam gets a front row seat to a split-second of emotions playing across his brother’s features: betrayal, anger, shock, humiliation and devastating heartbreak.

And then it's like shutters have gone down behind Dean's eyes, closing Sam out just as effectively as he does everyone else, something he's never done to his little brother before. How can everything have gone so terribly wrong so fast?

Sam turns on his father again. "You  _know_  that's not true, you bastard, you _know_ I wouldn't leave without telling him!"

"I thought I knew you would never desert your family," John counters, "but I guess I was wrong about that, wasn't I?"

"That is not what this is!" Sam shouts, desperate. "I just want a chance to be normal!"

"Fine!" John roars, expression thunderous. "Go! Be _normal_! But if you walk out that door, don't you  _ever_  come back."

Sam's whole world screeches to a halt. He's distantly aware of Dean raising a protest, but he can't hear the words over the blood pounding in his ears. He's furious and more than a little hurt, so he lashes out, just like his father taught him. He wonders if John ever thought the lesson would be turned against him.

" _Fine_." he snarls with as much venom as he can muster, and Dean stops in the middle of whatever he was saying, staring at him in disbelief. "I'm outta here. Good luck with your fucking lost cause,  _John._ "

John's lips twitch, but he doesn't flinch and Sam has to turn away to keep his father from having the satisfaction of seeing the tears that are starting to blur his vision.

Sam snatches his bus ticket off the table, clutching it and the torn-up letter to his chest as he stumbles back out into the hallway. He has to pass Dean, frozen by the door, but he won't look at Sam, so he doesn't say a word as he pushes past.

Going back into the bedroom is almost too much, but Sam has to have his stuff if he's never coming back. His legs tremble a little at the thought, but he pushes through it and walks into their room.

Dean must've opened the window before he came out because the air is clear, but that doesn't stop Sam from playing everything back in vivid Technicolor detail in his head. He wants nothing more than to collapse into bed and cry, for Dean to stroke his hair and tell him that it'll be okay, but he doesn't have that luxury anymore.

Instead, Sam tries to pack quickly and systematically, stuffing all of his worldly possessions into one duffle bag. He pauses when he comes across one of Dean's t-shirts mixed in with his; a ratty Led Zeppelin number that used to be black, but has long since faded to grey. Without thinking too hard about his motives, Sam stuffs it in his bag and zips it up, throwing a cursory glance around the room for anything he might have missed, trying hard not to look over at Dean's bed.

It's getting to be too overwhelming, so Sam decides to cut his losses on whatever he might have missed and beats a hasty retreat. He bypasses the kitchen and pushes out the front door, swiping angrily at his eyes.

Dean is standing on the front porch, hands stuffed in his pockets. At the sight of him, Sam wants to drop to his knees, explain everything and beg for forgiveness. He wants to tell him that this isn't how it was supposed to happen, that he never anticipated an ultimatum. But Dean's eyes are cool and distant, looking through Sam rather than at him, and the words stick in his throat.

"Guess this is goodbye, then." He says instead.

Dean shrugs. "Guess it is."

His voice is so flat and emotionless, jarring compared to how he'd been last night and tears spring to Sam's eyes again.

"Dean..." He starts, reaching out, but his brother flinches away.

"Don't, Sam." Dean says, a barely noticeable tremor in his voice. "Please don't."

Sam drops his hand. He feels hollow, like someone's scraped out his insides. "Yeah, okay. I'll just...go." Dean doesn't respond, so Sam hitches his bag up on his shoulder and staggers down the porch steps, half-blind with tears.

"Sam." Dean calls and he stops, but he can't bring himself to turn around. "Just...take care of yourself, okay?"

The younger Winchester jerks his head in a nod, not trusting himself to speak. When no more words are forthcoming, he starts walking again.

It's a long way to the bus station.


End file.
